


Not Unscathed

by ellijay



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-15
Updated: 2016-11-15
Packaged: 2018-08-31 05:24:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8565679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellijay/pseuds/ellijay
Summary: Companion piece to “As Cold As Any Stone” – Gap filler dealing with what happened to Merlin from the end of “The Darkest Hour Part 1” on through the scene by the water in “The Darkest Hour Part 2”





	1. Improvising

**Author's Note:**

> A big thank-you to Vegetables-will-have-their-revenge (I had to put hyphens in there so the document editor would stop being stupid and deleting it when I had it as one long word) for doing a read-through on this and catching the annoying nits for me. I was thoroughly mortified that I'd misspelled Gaius's name throughout "As Cold As Any Stone," so hopefully there won't be any embarrassing silliness like that this time. Feel free to point it out to me if there's anything there, though. I always like to improve, however minor the point may seem.

Of all the things for Merlin to do, the blasted, self-sacrificing, brave, impulsive _idiot_ had gone and thrown himself at a Dorocha. It had been so unexpected and sudden that Arthur couldn’t quite bring himself to believe it had happened until he and Lancelot rolled Merlin over. He was still and silent, staring empty-eyed at nothing, frost and ice dusted across his face. He was dead. After all the insanely dangerous things they’d faced together – curses and sorcerers and all manner of deadly creatures, even an immense, fire-breathing dragon – it was an incorporeal, nightmarish thing of fear that had done Merlin in.

He and Lancelot lowered Merlin carefully back to the ground, then Arthur stood and turned away, fighting the urge to yell or bash his fist against the wall. If only he could get his hands on the Dorocha, he’d throttle every last one of them. He’d slash them to bits with his sword until there was nothing left but shreds of mist. Oh, he’d get them in the end – that was the purpose for this journey to the Isle of the Blessed after all – but what he wouldn’t give to take out some small measure of revenge right here and now.

“He blinked,” someone behind him said, the voice astonished and disbelieving. It took Arthur a moment to realize it was Gwaine.

“What? That’s not possible.” That was Elyan.

“I’m telling you, he blinked. Look, he just did it again.”

What could they possibly be talking about? Arthur stood perfectly still for a handful of seconds before the meaning of the words finally came clear to him. He turned slowly, his heart hammering with sudden hope. It made his chest hurt, almost more than the agony of seeing Merlin frozen and so startlingly dead. It was dangerous, this desperate feeling, because if Gwaine were wrong, if it was some trick of the light or merely the residual twitching of the recently dead, something inside him might just break.

He was at Merlin’s side in an instant, almost without thinking. He had to see for himself, to know what was true. “Merlin,” he called out as he gripped his servant’s shoulder, barely holding back a gasp at the cold seeping out of him. “Merlin. Can you hear me?” His voice was shaking, but he didn’t really care who heard or judged him for it.

Nothing. No blinking. No movement at all. Arthur sat back on his heels, pulled off gloves and tossed them carelessly aside. Then he held his bare hand over Merlin’s parted lips, wanting so badly for there to be something there, some slight gust of life. Wait. Had he imagined it? No, it was there. Not warm. A stirring of something cold, but that should be expected, shouldn’t it? There was _ice_ on his face, after all.

He pressed his ear to Merlin’s chest. He probably should’ve done that first, but a lurking sense of dread had held him back. No heartbeat was a finality he didn’t want to accept, especially now that he’d cast aside the certainty of death. _Please, please, please, anything but silence._ After a moment he heard it, faint and slow, an unsteady thumping. A distinct sign of life. It was there. He didn’t dare move for fear it would fade, but it remained, a little stronger now.

“Ar … thur?” The voice was so quiet, such a faint and drawn out whisper, that he wasn’t quite sure he’d actually heard it. He sat up slowly, worried that it might have been nothing more than the wind made into his name by his own desperation.

But no. There was awareness in Merlin’s eyes, unfocussed and muted, but it was there nonetheless. Life, refusing to give up. Arthur couldn’t help but think it was beautiful, not that he’d ever, _ever_ admit that to anyone. He was surprised he’d even _thought_ it, but intense relief could make people do ridiculous things.

He wanted to crow in delight. Yet again, Merlin had triumphed over seemingly impossible odds. Luck of the foolish and reckless. But then his servant’s eyes slid slowly closed.

“No.” Arthur’s voice was firm and steady now, though he didn’t know how he’d managed it. Maybe Merlin would take that single word as an order to stay. _Please, just this once, listen to me._ “Merlin.” _That’s your name, idiot. Answer it._

He brushed gently at Merlin’s cheek, swiping the ice and frost away, then laid his hand flat on the side of Merlin’s face. No response, even to patting and gentle slaps. “Come on, you idiot. Wake up.” He said it quietly but urgently, talking to himself as much as Merlin. He’d resort to slapping him in earnest if he had to, but he didn’t want to do that. It would be ungrateful. Merlin had saved his life, after all. Yet again. Even though he’d teased Merlin when he’d claimed earlier that he’d saved Arthur numerous times before, he knew it was true. He’d come to believe over the years, in fact, that there were many more occasions of Merlin putting himself in jeopardy for the sake of others than he would probably ever know about.

Silence. No reaction. Arthur was reconsidering hitting him, because if that didn’t get a response, probably nothing would, but then Merlin took a long, slow breath through his nose. He held it for a moment, and then he finally exhaled, a painful and shuddering sound.

“What _is_ that?” Merlin whispered, his voice trembling, whether with cold, fear, confusion or something else entirely, Arthur didn’t know and didn’t particularly care. Merlin was speaking, actually talking, and it was… Never mind what it was. It was _good_.

“What is _what_?” That was Lancelot’s voice. Arthur didn’t look up, though, keeping his eyes fixed on Merlin, feeling absurdly as though he’d slip away again if there wasn’t as much as possible anchoring him here – touch, sight, sound, _hope_. And need. He definitely wouldn’t _ever_ admit that last one to _anyone_ , not even on pain of death.

“Something … on my cheek,” Merlin muttered. It seemed a great effort for him to speak. Well, of course it was difficult. His entire face must be numb.

“That’s my hand,” Arthur replied. Just a plain and simple fact. Nothing to be embarrassed about, even though it could be seen as a gesture of caring. If Merlin could feel it and it was giving him something to tether himself to the here and now, his hand would stay where it was.

“It’s hot,” Merlin replied, his brow creasing slightly.

“You’re cold,” Arthur said, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. It was almost like a normal exchange, if not for the seriousness of the situation.

“It hurts.” There was a slight bit of tension in Merlin’s face, as if he was trying to turn away but couldn’t manage it.

Arthur reluctantly pulled his hand away. Only then did he notice there was an ache deep in his palm, the kind of feeling you’d get when holding something frozen, like snow or winter ice. How could Merlin be so cold and still alive?

“We need to get him warmed up,” Lancelot said matter-of-factly, but there was definitely a strong undercurrent of concern in his voice. “He could die from the cold alone.”

Arthur nodded, still not wanting to look away from Merlin, but he forced himself to do so. He needed to know what their resources were. Percival was holding the single torch still left to them, but it was near to guttering out. Merlin had dropped the firewood he’d been gathering before the Dorocha attacked, but there were a few timbers scattered here and there in the room they were currently in, and the door was wood besides.

“Gather those timbers,” he commanded, gesturing towards the area where he and Merlin had been hiding, so futilely, such a short time ago. Elyan and Leon immediately obeyed. Gwaine was just standing there staring, but Arthur didn’t have the time or energy to deal with that now. “Tear the door apart if you have to. We can light it with the…” The last, flickering bit of fire faded. “…torch. Damn it!” Now they were left with just the glow of the full moon flooding in through windows and chinks in walls. And the Dorocha were still outside, although their screams were now fading. Maybe they’d been satisfied by Merlin’s sacrifice.

“Sorry,” Percival muttered, as though it were his fault the torch had gone out.

“Never mind,” Arthur replied impatiently. They’d just have to think of something else. Dawn couldn’t be that far away.

“He might have the flint with him,” Lancelot said suddenly, going through the pockets of Merlin’s jacket. At least now Arthur could see the rise and fall of his servant’s chest. His breathing was erratic, though. Shallow breaths were interspersed with longer, deeper ones that seemed to be causing him discomfort judging from the way his face was twitching. If a warm hand on his face hurt, Arthur could only imagine what it must be like for him to be drawing air into his lungs. The room was chilly, but it was still warmer than Merlin.

After a moment of searching, Lancelot shook his head. He seemed oddly resigned, as if he’d known the flint wouldn’t be there. Maybe he’d seen Merlin put it away in his pack earlier but was grasping at the possibility that he’d gotten it out again and put in his pocket for whatever reason.

Arthur’s thoughts were spinning, trying to work out another option to solve the current problem, when Gwaine finally spoke up. “Well, then,” he said, clapping his hands loudly together, the sound every bit as startling as the apple had been. “We’ll just have to use the body heat method. I’ll volunteer since it’s my idea.” He strode over to Merlin and motioned for Arthur to move away.

“What _are_ you talking about, Gwaine?” he asked in confusion, but he stood up and shifted aside even so.

“Oh, sorry, I forgot,” Gwaine said as he took off his cloak and dropped it to the floor. He followed that by pulling his chain mail over his head, continuing to speak as he did so. “Being the crown prince and having to be respectable and all, I suppose you’ve never had a woman in your bed on a cold winter’s night. Don’t answer that, by the way. I really don’t want to know.” He was undoing the ties on his padded jacket now, and Arthur was beginning to wonder how much further he was going to disrobe. This was getting a bit awkward, but if it was going to help Merlin…

That was as far as Gwaine went with removing his clothes, though. He stood a moment, considering, then said, “Probably two of us would be better, one in front, one in back, give him as much warmth as possible.” He knelt and spread his cloak out on the floor next to Merlin, then said to Lancelot, “Help me move him over, on his side.”

Arthur stood and watched, understanding now what Gwaine was doing. He scratched uncomfortably behind his ear. It was a good thing there were only knights here, and trusted ones at that, because this might set tongues wagging otherwise.

The jostling roused Merlin again. He didn’t open his eyes but said in a strained voice, “No. Stop.”

“We’re trying to help you, Merlin,” Lancelot said gently.

“Not me. Help Ar…” The name caught in his throat and he couldn’t get the rest out. His face scrunched up a bit, likely either in pain or annoyance at his voice failing him. Possibly both.

“Arthur’s fine, Merlin. You saved him.”

Merlin sucked in a sharp breath and let it out again just as quickly. “Good.”

“Rest now. We’ll take care of you.”

No answer from Merlin. Apparently he’d found out what he needed to know and was content. Arthur felt an upwelling of guilt. This shouldn’t have happened at all.

Gwaine and Lancelot went back to maneuvering Merlin onto the cloak, which took a fair bit of effort since Merlin had gone completely limp. Arthur had to firmly tell himself not to think “dead weight”. He’d probably fallen unconscious. That might be for the best.

Once Merlin was lying on his side in the center of the cloak, Gwaine laid down next to him, behind his back. He pulled open the front of his quilted jacket, presumably to allow his own body heat to pass more readily to Merlin, then scooted himself over to press his entire front side right along Merlin’s body. He immediately pulled away a bit, though, and exclaimed, “By all that’s blessed and holy! I’ve never felt a person that cold. Would someone please lend me a piece of clothing for the sake of my future children?”

There was a snort of amusement. Arthur wasn’t sure who’d made it, but it was Percival who stepped forward and offered his cloak. Gwaine took it and stuffed most of it into the space between the middle of his body and Merlin. Then he wriggled until he was flush against Merlin’s back, his knees bending to match Merlin’s legs and his arm going under Merlin’s and wrapping around his chest. “We’re going to have to take this in turns,” he said, a quiver in his voice. “I don’t think there’s enough heat in my entire body to thaw him out.” He seemed determined to try, though, and pushed himself even more firmly up against Merlin. “So who wants the other side?”

“I’ll do it,” Lancelot said quickly, immediately standing and removing his cloak. He also took off his chain mail as Gwaine had, then stood there with his head tilted to the side, looking perplexed.

“Oh, for…” Gwaine muttered. “Has no one here but me ever been with a woman before?”

“I have,” said Percival offhandedly.

“Really?” Gwaine said as he raised his head and looked over. “You and I need to have a visit to the tavern later, mate. You’ve been holding out on me.”

“Gwaine…” Arthur drawled in exasperation.

“Ooo, someone’s touchy,” he teased, but he left it alone beyond that. Wise of him. He put his head back down and returned his attention to Lancelot. “Your back to Merlin’s front, lover boy. Right up against him, as close as you can get. Don’t be shy.”

A bit of color crept into Lancelot’s cheeks, but he did as Gwaine instructed. The three of them were soon settled into a bizarre but very comfortable looking… Arthur wasn’t sure what to call it. Embrace? Now his own face was getting a bit warm. Maybe he should just stop thinking about it.

“Cover us up, would you, princess?” Gwaine said with a wink and a nod towards where Lancelot had left his cloak on the ground.

Arthur glared at him but did as he was asked. As he crouched down and spread the cloak over them, he noticed that the frost and ice were already beginning to melt from Merlin’s face, small droplets of water forming and running down his skin. Arthur could still sense the cold clinging to him, though, like unseen mist, as if some small part of the Dorocha were still there, refusing to let go. Probably the sign of thawing was simply because the air wasn’t quite freezing, and now there were warm bodies next to Merlin, lending an aura of heat.

Since a course of action had been settled upon, and it seemed plausible that it might actually succeed, Arthur’s concern for Merlin turned to annoyance at Gwaine, for both his brash sense of humor and the way he was glibly ordering everyone about. He felt the sudden urge to take back control of the situation. “The minute either of you starts to shiver,” he said firmly as he rose back up to his full height and pointed a stern finger at Gwaine, then Lancelot, “someone else will take your place. All of us need to stay as strong as possible.” He added to himself that it wasn’t just for the quest, but for Merlin’s sake as well.

“Percival, you’ll be next,” Arthur said as he looked around at the others. “Then Elyan, then Leon, then me.” He wasn’t sure why he named himself last. Probably an automatic decision because he was the prince, and the prince always went either first or last, depending on the situation. At least this prince did. Part of him had to admit, though, that he would be grateful if dawn arrived before he had to take his turn, because if Merlin woke up and found Arthur curled up against him, there would be no end to the teasing he’d endure from his manservant later. He’d put up with it, though, if it meant that Merlin was there to be the thorn in his side that he worryingly not only tolerated, but sometimes actually enjoyed.


	2. Struggling

Merlin was vaguely aware he should probably be dead, but he couldn’t quite remember why. At least he wasn’t in very much pain. It hurt to breathe and there were various dull aches throughout his body, but that was tolerable. Much more important than his own condition was that Arthur had been in danger and wasn’t any longer. He was here and had spoken to Merlin. He remembered that. Arthur’s hand had been hot, as if he’d been holding it over a fire. Lancelot had told him as well that Arthur was safe. So there was at least one thing very right with the world. Something niggled at him, though, something he couldn’t quite place. This wasn’t the end of it, but he couldn’t quite remember what more was to come.

He tried to shift his body – there seemed to be some sort of hard surface underneath him that wasn’t especially comfortable – but he couldn’t move. There was something pinning him in place, pressed against him, front and back. He wasn’t sure what it was, although it seemed to be softer than whatever was underneath him. He didn’t feel any particular need to identify it since it wasn’t causing him any additional discomfort. It was actually quite nice. Reassuring for some reason.

He couldn’t see anything, so maybe it was dark, although it seemed odd that it would be so pitch black that he wouldn’t be able to make out anything at all. Then again, maybe his eyes were closed. It was difficult to tell. He felt detached from most of his body, as if he were merely residing within it but had very little say in what it did. It was a decidedly disturbing feeling, but he doubted there was much he could do about it for the time being. He wasn’t sure he even had the energy to try.

His hearing at least seemed to be marginally functional. He could make out people talking, although the sound was a bit muffled, and there was some kind of ringing noise in his ears that made it difficult to make out the words. He made an effort to concentrate and finally managed to make his sluggish brain capture what was being said.

“I don’t understand how he isn’t dead.” Was that Elyan? “You said Gaius told you no mortal had ever survived their touch.”

“One of them grazed me, when Merlin and I were gathering firewood.” That was definitely Arthur. Another wave of relief went through Merlin at the additional confirmation that he was fine. “So obviously Gaius’s information wasn’t entirely correct.”

“Why didn’t you tell us you were injured, Sire?” That must be Leon. He was the only one among them who automatically called Arthur “Sire,” almost without fail. Old habits. He did sound somewhat aggrieved, though.

“It’s fine, Leon. Merlin bound it up. My arm was cold right after it happened, but it’s better now.”

More memories slithered about in Merlin’s brain. Arthur telling him he was brave, saying it not once, but twice. They’d been hiding from something, and Arthur had actually been afraid.

“Maybe the thing took pity on him for trying to sacrifice himself for the sake of a prat.” That voice was right next to him, just behind his head. So were the things hemming him in actually people? Doing what? Holding him still? That was silly. He wasn’t exactly going to stand up and walk away with the state he was in.

“Gwaine…” Arthur again, annoyed.

Gwaine was next to him? Why on earth was Gwaine curled up with him … on the floor? Yes, they must be on the ground. It was solid and it wasn’t moving. Probably good they weren’t in a bed or something similar. That would be entirely too awkward. And fodder for endless teasing. But it didn’t answer the question of what he and the knight by Merlin’s other side, whoever it was, were doing.

Oh, wait. Arthur had said his arm had been cold. Maybe he was cold too? Perhaps the knights were trying to warm him up with their own body heat. That was … kind of them. But if he was that cold, shouldn’t he be shivering? He seemed to recall it was a bad thing to be so cold and not shivering. He’d been cold after the Cailleach had appeared to him at the feast. The recollection stood out bright and clear for a moment – her pale face, her eyes filled with pain, the haunting sound of her voice. And then the Dorocha had come. They’d been here, earlier. There was a dim stirring of panic in him, but it stayed deep inside and faded. They were gone now. He couldn’t hear their screaming.

“Maybe it was because Merlin ran toward it, and it went through him more quickly.” That was definitely Elyan. Merlin was sure of the voice now, even though it wasn’t quite as familiar to him as some of the others.

Another memory slid back where it belonged. One of the Dorocha had found them. Arthur had been getting up to face it himself, so Merlin had shoved him aside and gone in his place. Arthur had probably been shocked by that. After all, he’d said Merlin was only brave between battles. But he hadn’t meant it. A lot of what Arthur said to him had to be turned around backwards to get at the real meaning.

“But it _didn’t_ go straight through him. It picked him up, carried him clear across the room, and slammed him into the wall.” Arthur again. He sounded angry. At Merlin or at the Dorocha? Probably both.

“Maybe Merlin frightened it.” He wasn’t sure who that was. The voices were getting muddled.

“Do you figure he scared them away?” That might be Gwaine, but there was a strange echoing effect developing in Merlin’s head that was making it difficult to judge distance or direction of sound.

“Please. Merlin couldn’t scare a mouse.” That had to be Arthur, but the words sounded very far away.

He felt like he was floating now, into a nothingness that oddly didn’t frighten him. He was exhausted, and letting go of awareness seemed more of a welcome respite than something that should be resisted. The voices faded.

He was brought back to consciousness by the sense that something was wrong with him. Something more wrong than before. His body was shaking. He was still firmly tucked between two other bodies, but he didn’t think they were causing the disconcerting, quivering movement. It was coming from inside of him. A strange sort of trembling that he couldn’t control. He realized he was shivering. He didn’t feel well at all. His teeth were chattering, and his jaw ached.

“Arthur…” It was difficult to speak. His tongue and lips didn’t seem to want to obey him.

“I’m right here, Merlin.”

The ringing in his ears and the echo in his head were gone now, so he could tell the voice wasn’t quite close enough to belong to one of the people immediately next to him. A distant memory stirred – that aborted hug, so long ago. He could just imagine Arthur’s reaction if someone suggested he share body heat with his manservant. A laugh tried to work its way out of his mouth, which turned out to be a very bad thing. He suddenly couldn’t draw breath properly. It took an enormous amount of effort to pull the air into his lungs, and then it stayed there, trapped. A jagged, gagging sound came from the back of his throat, accompanied by sharp, hot pain.

“He can’t breathe.”

“Sit him up. It might help.”

The world turned upside down. It felt like everything was tilting out of control around him, and there was nothing he could do about it. He couldn’t move at all. He would’ve screamed if he were able, but he didn’t have the breath, and even if he somehow managed it, he had a feeling he might spit blood.

“Merlin! Breathe!”

There were hands on his shoulders, holding him steady. Apart from that firm touch, he couldn’t make sense of anything. It was so very, very dark, and he was lost. But those hands held on, didn’t let go, and that gave him something to help ground himself. Slowly his senses began to settle. He was panting rapidly, shallowly, but at least he was breathing, in and out. He could tell he was now sitting upright, someone behind him, propping him up.

“There. That’s better.”

“Arthur?” He barely managed to get the name out. There was something very wrong deep inside his chest.

“Yes, Merlin. You’re looking right at me. Who else would I be?”

“What? No. I can’t…” He strained to get some sense of his eyes and finally worked out that they felt dry and itchy. And they were definitely open. He blinked, several times, but nothing changed. “I can’t see you,” he whispered. He tried desperately to shift his position, half-crazed thoughts running through his mind that if he could just move, one tiny bit, this entire reality would break loose and fall away. “I can’t see anything at all.”

He remembered the moment the Dorocha had slammed into him. He’d had his eyes open. The bitter cold must have damaged his sight. And he’d breathed in some part of the Dorocha’s essence as well. That might explain why his chest felt so strange. His lungs must have been hurt, like Evan the wainwright who’d inhaled too much smoke when he’d saved his family from their burning home. Evan could barely work now, having to rest often because he could no longer breathe properly. Was that to be Merlin’s fate, then? Shuffling about, gasping for breath, caught in never ending darkness?

At least he’d still have his magic to comfort him. Or would he? The Dorocha had dampened his powers the first time he’d encountered them. What if…? He anxiously reached down inside of himself, trying to connect with the wellspring of energy that was always inside of him, warm and golden and so much a part of his life and existence that he couldn’t imagine it ever being gone. But it was. He couldn’t sense it at all. There wasn’t a trace of it left. Panicked, he pushed deeper, but he couldn’t even find a spark of the Dragonlord’s power that had come to him upon his father’s death. That wasn’t quite magic, but it hadn’t survived the Dorocha’s attack either. All of it was all gone, leaving nothing behind but a terrifying void.

A violent surge of denial went though him, tearing through his heart and stealing what little breath he had. His brain was pragmatically insisting he needed more air, but his lungs couldn’t take it in. His chest was heaving in an attempt to push the breath back out of him at the same time as his mouth was desperately trying to pull in more. But what did it matter if he breathed or not? What was he without his magic?

“Merlin! Stop! Calm down!”

He couldn’t, didn’t even want to try. A roaring sound was growing in his ears, fading in and out, synchronized with a sudden throbbing pressure in his skull. He distantly heard someone calling his name again, and then there was nothing.

An indeterminate span of black and cold and silence stretched out all around him, until he felt something fluttering across his face. A breeze, cool and fresh. It was soothing, something gentle in the midst of so much pain. He was outside again, sitting up, something solid behind his back. He felt much calmer now, strangely removed from everything around him, as if he were stretched between the here and now and something far away. He supposed it was possible he was in some kind of deep and profound shock at having lost his magic. At least the disconnection was allowing him to keep his wits about him, however addled they may be.

He focused his attention on determining where exactly he was. Whatever was behind him rose only as high as his neck. His head was leaning back, and he tried to raise it. He was only able to lift it slightly before the muscles in his neck gave out, but it was a tremendous relief to be able to do even that much. He barely felt the impact as his head dropped back again, but he could tell the surface was hard. It might have been a wall, but it seemed more likely that it was the fire pit they’d been gathered around before the Dorocha attacked. He couldn’t feel any warmth coming from it now, so the fire must’ve burned out. Hopefully that meant it was past sunrise.

He took several short, shallow breaths and tried to pull himself upright again, but he didn’t have the strength to manage it. Back his head went again, but before it hit stone, an arm slipped behind him, tilting him forward a bit and helping him to sit up straight. Then something soft was wedged behind his head, taking the place of the arm.

“Is that better? It’s Lancelot, by the way.”

“I know,” he whispered, unable to put any more force behind his words. He was so tired, and his chest hurt so horribly that he was afraid to breathe too deeply. “I’m not deaf.” Then he added to himself, _Just blind, apparently. And no longer a warlock. Or a Dragonlord. Or much of anything at all._

“Would you like some water?” Lancelot asked.

Merlin didn’t want to make the effort to form any more words, so he gave a noncommittal, humming sound in reply. Lancelot must’ve taken it as a yes, because now there was the rim of a waterskin at his lips. He managed to swallow a bit of water without choking himself. It was cool and actually felt good, like the breeze.

“I’m very sorry this happened, Merlin.”

Merlin ignored him. He didn’t need anyone else’s pity. He seemed to be doing a more than adequate job of providing it for himself. He should probably stop, because it wasn’t doing any good. He tried to distract himself by attempting to make out the conversation that was taking place somewhere nearby. Apparently his ears still weren’t working very well, even with the absence of the ringing and echoing. He could barely make out the words. Something about Gaius and a quest and dying. Gaius and dying made sense because Gaius was a physician and would obviously tend to the dying, but what did a quest have to do with it? His thoughts were still rather muddled, which was even more frustrating than not being able to move his own body.

 “I’ll be right back,” Lancelot said. “Would you sit with him for a moment, Percival?”

Lancelot squeezed his shoulder, then his presence was replaced by another at his other side. Percival didn’t say anything, but Merlin could feel something nudging behind his head. Percival’s hand or arm? Then there was something tugging at his chest. “What are you doing?” he murmured. It probably wasn’t important, but the need for things to be done for him was irritating.

“Pulling the blanket up. You’re still very cold.”

“Oh.” He hadn’t realized that. Mostly he felt numb. He wondered if he could move anything other than his head. He concentrated all his effort on it, but try as he might, all he could manage was a twitch of one foot and a slight curling of the fingers of his right hand where it rested beside him on the ground. Whatever was underneath him wasn’t dirt or grass. Another blanket?

Lancelot was back again. “I’m taking you to Camelot, Merlin. Gaius might be able to help you.”

That seemed like a good idea, the leaving part at least, because what use was he here? He doubted Gaius would be able to reverse what had been done. This might very well be beyond anything the physician had ever dealt with. But there was still that bothersome feeling that he was forgetting something. The others had been talking about a quest and dying. He didn’t think he was dying. Then again, maybe he was. He thought he’d been shivering before, but he wasn’t now and was still cold. That couldn’t be good. Not being able to move or see wasn’t very reassuring either. But all that was rather more debilitating than deadly. Wasn’t it? He didn’t even want to think what the ramifications of losing his magic and Dragonlord abilities might be.

Something else still wasn’t making sense, though. There was some crucial fact he was missing. He tried once again to bring some order to the jumble in his brain. It was like wading through sludge, but bits and pieces started to slowly emerge out of the mire. The Isle of the Blessed. A memory of rage and lightning and death. He turned away from that. It had nothing to do with what was going on now. He pushed a little harder. Freezing. A steamy cloud of breath into the cold night air, the Dorocha coming towards him, snuffing out the light. People dying nightmarish deaths. And then all the rest of it came back to him in a rush. The quest to stop the Dorocha. Blood sacrifice. Arthur saying he would lay down his own life to save his people.

“No. He can’t.” Merlin put every ounce of strength he had into making sure his words were heard. This was one last thing he could do. “You can’t let him, Lancelot. Please stop him.”

“I have to take you back to Gaius, Merlin. Arthur will be fine. He’ll have the others with him – Gwaine and Percival, Elyan and Leon.”

“Doesn’t matter. They don’t know…” His words were cut off by a gasp. His lungs were burning, refusing to give him the air to continue speaking. There was a horrible spasm deep in his chest, and then he was coughing. He could barely breathe, much less say anything. The roaring was back, the pounding in his head, in time with his speeding heart. _No, no, no._ He couldn’t black out now. But it seemed his will alone wasn’t enough, not with his body working against him and his magic having abandoned him. Darkness swept over him again.


	3. Hope and Destiny

After some unknown gap of time, Merlin began to perceive a distant sense of movement. As awareness slowly crept back into him, he realized someone was carrying him. His head was hanging back, nothing supporting it now. He hesitantly opened his eyes. If by some miracle his sight had been restored, he was fairly certain that abruptly seeing the world upside down and swaying back and forth would do unpleasant things to his equilibrium, and that would affect his body and mind in ways he didn’t even want to consider.

There was nothing to be seen but darkness, though. It was a bizarre sort of relief. He didn’t think he could cope with sudden reversals right now, even if they were for the better. Unless the change was Arthur relenting and not sending him away.

He could hear horses stamping and snorting, bits and stirrups jangling. Whoever was carrying him hefted him up a bit higher and maneuvered him into a saddle. He couldn’t sit up on his own, was lowered forwards, felt something soft brushing against his face. Probably the horse’s mane.

He could sense someone next to him, a strong hand running down his arm. There was a voice saying, “This is my fault, and I’m sorry.”

It was Arthur. Stubborn determination sparked in Merlin. He had to try and talk some sense into him. He couldn’t just allow him to sacrifice himself, or there would never be an Albion, with its promise of a bright, shining future. “Take me with you, please.” He hoped the ‘please’ would do it. He hardly ever said that, at least not with this kind of utter sincerity.

“You’ll die, Merlin.” A simple statement, direct and uninflected. Arthur’s tone was nearly emotionless, the sound of a prince decided and unwavering. Cause and effect. If Merlin stayed, he would die. If Merlin went, he might live.

Hearing that voice, Merlin knew it was probably futile to carry on trying to convince Arthur to change his mind, but he refused to give in. “But you don’t understand me, please, Arthur.” The words were slurred together despite his best efforts to speak clearly. He knew it sounded like begging and was well aware that Arthur didn’t usually respond very well to overwrought demands or what he deemed to be unreasonable requests, but the pleading was unavoidably there, and it was honest.

“Do you ever do as you’re told?” Arthur’s voice was still flat. His response seemed more automatic than deliberate. So many times he’d said something similar. It was expected, familiar, but far more annoying this time than it had quite possibly ever been in the past.

Merlin fought against his own frustration. He was _not_ going to give up. He never had, and never would, not when it counted. He couldn’t let it end like this. _He_ was the one who was supposed to die, not Arthur. He was dying already. He couldn’t deny that any longer. There were too many things damaged in his body. There was no use in Lancelot bringing him back to Gaius. But if Arthur would take him to the Isle of the Blessed, if he could hold on long enough to get there, the last of his life would have some purpose. Arthur didn’t have to die, too. “I have to come with you.”

Before he could give the reason, the painfully obvious solution to this entire predicament, Arthur cut him off. “Merlin.” There was more feeling in that one word than all the others before, but it was commanding, not gentle.

“We have to leave.” That was Lancelot. He didn’t understand either. Merlin hadn’t been able to explain before the coughing fit had started.

Now it was happening again, that contracting of muscles in his chest. He held his breath. If he could contain and control his breathing, keep from being wracked with another round of hacking and gasping, he might just be able to make one more try.

It was too late, though. A firm grip on his arm, lingering for a moment before it was gone, then one last word, “Go.” The horse began to walk, hooves clopping against the cobbles. The motion gave a bit of momentum to his body, enough for him to raise his chest and head up slightly, but his lungs were still trying to betray him. He couldn’t speak to stop the horse, couldn’t move his feet or hands to direct it. He had no choice but to go where it went, undoubtedly following behind Lancelot as he rode on ahead.

He fell forward, resting the side of his face against his horse’s neck. He wanted to scream and to cry, but he could do neither. The ability to weep seemed to have gone with his sight. He prayed for the darkness and let it take him when it oh so willingly came.

He roused some time later with no idea how long it had been since he and Lancelot had left the rest of the group. The horse was going at a brisk trot now. He couldn’t understand how he was staying in the saddle. Then he realized they must’ve tied him down, lashed his legs to the girth most likely. He remembered an intermittent pull and tug when he’d been speaking to Arthur.

An unexpected surge of anger went through him. Arthur had _tied_ him to the horse, damn him. Wanted to make sure his unruly servant did as he was told for once and didn’t throw himself off the horse in an attempt to stay. Was so sure he knew all the answers and was the only one who could solve Camelot’s problems. Wouldn’t listen when someone was trying to tell him something of vital importance. Was so blasted determined to give up his own life, as if no one else’s was good enough to be offered up instead.

And as long as he was casting blame, damn Gaius as well for telling Arthur that a blood sacrifice would be needed to repair the tear in the veil between the worlds. Gaius should’ve taken Merlin aside and told him privately, and then they could’ve decided together how best to handle the situation without endangering the prince. He couldn’t help but feel that Gaius had betrayed him at worst, or unthinkingly dismissed him at best. If he made it back alive, he’d tell Gaius exactly what he thought of being treated that way.

Then just as quickly as the anger had flooded into him, it drained away, leaving a lingering hollowness behind. Yelling and raging wouldn’t change anything. He probably wouldn’t even have the strength left in him by the time they reached Camelot to put up a respectable rant. And what would it solve, to end with angry words? What might have been his last time ever speaking to Arthur had been fraught with tension. Before his final breath was gone, he’d like to have a quiet moment to thank Gaius for all he’d done, perhaps say a few words to Gwen, try to comfort her, let her know that Arthur’s sacrifice was not in vain.

His time and his life, his energy, all that made him who and what he was, were almost spent. He started to drift off into a place between reality and something like a dream, but then he heard someone calling his name. There was a sense of refreshing coolness in the voice, laced through with the sound of rippling water. He wondered if he’d imagined it, but there was his name again, more urgent. “Merlin, hear me. Come to the water. Come to us and we will heal you. Do not be afraid. You must hurry.”

The voice was sweet and slightly musical, underpinned with urgency. It might be nothing more than a delusion born out of the tatters of hope, but he couldn’t dismiss the possibility of one last chance to save himself, and thereby save Arthur as well.

“Lancelot,” he managed to croak out. There was no answer. He must not have heard. He gathered all the breath he could muster and forced it all out at once, past the agony in his chest. “Lancelot!” The sound was harsh and ragged, but apparently loud enough for Lancelot to hear this time. There was a whinny, then cracking branches and swishing leaves, followed by the heavy footfalls of a horse beside him. Both horses stopped and stood still. It felt strange not to be moving. Stranger still to have the possibility of hope once more, ephemeral though it was.

“What is it?” Lancelot’s voice was full of concern, and a bit of surprise as well. He probably hadn’t expected Merlin to call out so loudly, or even be able to.

“I have to get down,” he mumbled, tasting blood trickling from the back of his throat into his mouth. He thought it might’ve dribbled onto his chin as well. He wondered if his lungs were slowly filling with blood or if he’d caused himself some further injury by yelling Lancelot’s name with such force. He ignored those disturbing possibilities and instead focused on trying to shift his weight to get off the horse. He somehow managed to move his upper body, but he’d forgotten his legs were strapped down. He ended up with his head and arms dangling down one side of the horse, the rest of him still firmly seated.

“Merlin. Stop. You’re going to hurt yourself.”

“What, more than I already am?” he muttered with a trace of sarcasm. He noticed that it seemed to be easier to speak now, as if he’d broken something loose in his struggle to make himself heard. A small blessing, gratefully accepted, no matter its origin. “I have to get down,” he repeated more firmly. “Help me.”

“All right, I will,” Lancelot replied, a bit of exasperation in his voice. “Just give me a moment to untie your legs.”

He gave Merlin a good push to put his upper body back on top of the horse, but then he paused. Something swiped across Merlin’s chin. “Oh, Merlin.” Lancelot’s voice was slow and weary and sad. He must’ve seen the blood.

It wasn’t right for Lancelot to sound like that, certainly not for him. “Don’t you give up on me,” he said with determination. He swallowed back the fresh blood that came with the words.

“That, I will never do,” Lancelot replied, and he actually sounded like he meant it, even in the face of such horrible odds. He started to undo the bindings. His movements felt quick and determined to Merlin, as if such a simple act meant everything in the world. Perhaps it did.

As Merlin waited once again for someone else to do for him what he should’ve been able to do for himself, he felt a ripple of resignation mixed with regret running through him. There should have been another way. This had gone too far, and now there was only an unknown voice in the distance to undo the mistakes and misguided decisions. “You should have stayed with Arthur,” he said and tried to keep his voice gentle. He didn’t want it to seem like an accusation, but he felt he had to say it.

“I know,” Lancelot replied evenly, without the slightest trace of defensiveness. Obviously he’d already had this conversation with himself. “I couldn’t leave you. I didn’t want to entrust you to anyone else. None of them knows how important you are.”

Merlin felt the ghost of a smile flittering across his face. “You’re very conflicted, Lancelot. Me, Arthur, Camelot. Gwen as well, no matter how much you try to deny it. You really should consider sorting it all out.”

There was a slight huff of laughter as Lancelot went around to the other side of the horse. “I don’t think those particular things can be untangled, Merlin, even if I wanted them to be.”

Merlin made a humming sound and found the gentle vibration somewhat soothing to the residual soreness in his throat. The bleeding seemed to have stopped, or maybe it was just staying down inside of him for the moment. It was a small respite, but welcome. He shifted until his head was on the side of the horse where Lancelot now was, then settled himself with his face against the horse’s mane once more. “That’s what destiny’s like,” he said quietly. “All tangled up and determined not to let you go.”

“Maybe yours is like that. I don’t have a destiny.” Lancelot sounded matter-of-fact, but Merlin thought there was a trace of bitterness there as well. He’d had his wish fulfilled in becoming a Knight of Camelot, but he was still trying to find his purpose.

“Destinies have a way of sneaking up on you when you least expect them,” Merlin said softly, his voice little more than a whisper, “whether you want them or not.”

Lancelot didn’t reply to that. He apparently was now completely focused on loosening the last of the bindings on Merlin’s legs and seemed to be having some difficulty judging from how hard he was tugging.

“How many knots are there anyway?” Merlin mumbled.

Another hint of laughter from Lancelot. “Quite a few. It’s almost as if someone thought you might try to get loose. I can’t imagine why.”

Merlin snorted but didn’t make any further comment. He was getting very tired again, as if he could fall asleep and never wake up. He strained his ears, trying to hear that strange, musical voice once more. He caught a distant sound that might have been his name. “Is there water nearby?” he asked. He needed to tell Lancelot what to do, just in case he lost consciousness again.

Lancelot paused for a moment, looking or listening, not that Merlin cared which it was, as long as he got the reply he was hoping for. “Yes, I think there is. A stream of some sort, just through the trees.”

“I need to get there. I have to be right next to the water, close enough that I can touch it.”

Lancelot, to his credit, didn’t ask why. Merlin almost laughed, but caught himself before he did. He’d probably end up coughing like he had before, and that would be extremely unpleasant. He was left with the vaguely amused thought that he’d trained at least this particular knight very well. All those times he’d dragged Lancelot off somewhere or other, usually with very little information to go on, and he’d rarely asked questions, just did what needed to be done.

A few more moments and his legs were finally free. Lancelot gripped Merlin’s arm with one hand and reached over his back with the other, then pulled Merlin carefully towards him and down. Despite the caution, he tumbled off the horse rather more quickly than he’d expected. Lancelot apparently hadn’t planned on such a rapid descent either, because the two of them ended up in a heap on the forest floor.

Lancelot muttered a curse and an apology, but quickly sorted them out and started to gather Merlin up in his arms. A whicker and the stamping of a horse’s hoof brought Merlin’s attention back to practicality, though. “You should tether the horses. Hafren might take being left loose as an invitation to wander off and do whatever she pleases. She tends to be a bit headstrong.”

“That’s probably why Arthur usually gives her to you to ride,” Lancelot said dryly. “Here, let me at least move you off to the side so she doesn’t try to bite you for making disparaging comments about her.”

Lancelot lifted him and carried him a few paces before lowering him to the ground, much more slowly and gently than he’d come down from the horse, to sit with his back against what was probably a tree. While Lancelot tended to the horses, Merlin listened to the sounds of branches rustling, horses stamping, and the creaking and jangling of tack. They were normal, everyday sounds and helped to reassure him that all might yet be well.

His mind started to drift aimlessly, but the edge of his attention was caught by an odd sense of warmth inside of him. He turned his focus inward, casting about in the dark, and found a faint, golden flicker. He thought it might be a sign of his magic returning to him, but it seemed distant, as if it were watching and waiting for something.

He wondered if his magic had only temporarily fled to protect itself from the Dorocha, gone back to the source from where it had come when he was born. Or maybe it had been with him even before that. There was a brief image in his mind of freshly plowed fields, a bonfire at night, and sparks rising up to mingle with the stars. Then darkness fell again, apart from that single flame. It seemed a bit brighter and steadier now. He tried to touch it but it was just beyond his reach. It was as if it were keeping a vigil, waiting to see if its vessel would remain in the world of the living and be able to welcome it home again.

He was heartened by finding he hadn’t been entirely bereft of his magic, and by the promise that it might return if his body was healed. With the encouragement that thought gave him, he searched a bit more to see if the gift of the Dragonlord was also still within him. At first there was nothing but silence. Then he sensed something rich and warm, like the depths of father’s eyes, but it spoke to him in a voice that sounded suspiciously like Kilgharrah’s.

_I never left you. You simply forgot how to listen._

Then the timbre of the voice deepened a bit and took on a sense of weight, of years, of strength and wisdom. He knew that this was now Kilgharrah himself speaking to him in his mind, as he had all those years ago from the cavern underneath the citadel.

_Do not forget, young warlock, that the fire in one breath of mine is more than a score of your torches. I have been doing what I can, but the Dorocha are too many for me, and I cannot destroy them completely. Nevertheless, I am near to you now. Do not hesitate to call on me if you have need._

He tried to answer back but found that although the Dragonlord’s power was definitely still a part of him, he didn’t currently have the strength to give it voice, even inside his own mind. He wondered if Kilgharrah even knew what had happened to him. He seemed to think it a foregone conclusion that Merlin would live to face the Dorocha again. Maybe he simply had that much faith.

He was brought back outside of himself by Lancelot slipping an arm beneath his knees. He also pulled one of Merlin’s arms around his neck, but before he lifted him off the ground, he paused to say, “It’s going to be dark soon.” There was worry in his voice. Understandable since this would all come to naught if the Dorocha attacked again.

"I know," Merlin replied, strangely calm. For some reason he felt that if they could get to the water, they would have nothing to fear.

“Can you see again?” Lancelot asked, a touch of startled hope in his voice.

"No, but they said to hurry," Merlin said distractedly, "so I figured it must be near dark." He felt oddly relaxed, quiescent, at peace. Lancelot knew what needed to be done, and he would do it. After a moment of waiting, though, he realized Lancelot hadn't acknowledged what he'd just said, nor was he moving, so he added, "Don't think about it, Lancelot. Just go."

“Honestly, Merlin, the things I do for you,” Lancelot replied with an exaggerated sigh, but his voice was full of fondness and amusement.

Then Merlin was being lifted up. He let out a long, quivering breath, letting the pain and sorrow and regrets drift away. None of it mattered any longer. There was no more need to struggle. He let himself be carried onward to his fate, back towards the path of his destiny.

*****

The End


End file.
